


Comfortable Silences

by mcgooglykins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Breakfast foods, M/M, graphic depictions of domesticity, nobody is happy and everything hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 13:42:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6987376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcgooglykins/pseuds/mcgooglykins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I hate this house,” Sirius announces, scowling down at his coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfortable Silences

“I hate this house,” Sirius announces, scowling down at his coffee.

“Good morning to you, too,” Remus replies sleepily. Sirius scowls up at him, and Remus sleepily ignores him. Only Remus could be so chirpy at such an ungodly hour of the morning. Sirius knows he shouldn’t take out his anger on Remus, but he did walk through the door just then, and surely that’s a crime somewhere in the world.

“There’s nothing good about any morning that sees me wake up in this hell hole,” Sirius tips some firewhiskey into his coffee as Remus sits down in front of him with a pot of tea. Remus frowns and removes the mug and firewhiskey from Sirius’ hands.

“It’s far too early for that, Sirius,” A mug of tea replaces the spiked coffee.

“Not in Australia,” Sirius counters, but takes a sip of his tea anyway.

They sit together in silence. Sirius’ scowl lessens as he drinks his tea. It’s scalding hot, and burns his mouth, but he keeps at it. He doesn’t mind the heat, never did really, but especially doesn’t mind it now after the aching cold of Azkaban. Remus just stares down at his own steaming mug, occasionally blowing on it to cool it. This is their little ritual, this silent time before the sun rises and Molly bustles in and takes over. This is how it used to be, even back at Hogwarts. Sirius would get up ridiculously early, and by some instinct Remus would rise also, two, maybe three minutes later, and they would just sit a while, until Remus was properly awake, and Sirius had sorted his thoughts out just enough for him to be sociable.

“Promise me something,” Remus says abruptly, the signal that conversation may now begin. Sirius looks up at him. “Promise me you won’t drink anything alcoholic till after midday anymore. Twelve noon GMT time, specifically.”

Sirius pulls a face, but nods his promise, and knows that Remus knows he won’t break it. Now, of course, it’s his turn to speak.

“Want any breakfast?” Sirius offers, standing, “I’m making toast.”

“Ta,” Remus yawns, “shall I do the eggs?”

“Please.”

The comfortable silence returns as they slip into an easy domesticity. Sirius likes this. This is just how it used to be when they were younger, and living in that tiny flat. He says so.

“I like this,” he says, casually lighting the bench on fire, just a little, to feed the toast through, “This is like when we were younger”.

Remus smiles, “Lot of happy memories.” he murmurs, flipping the eggs over so that they cook right through, even though he doesn’t really like them that way. Sirius, however, used to make such a fuss about runny eggs being raw, and therefore still being baby chickens filled with salmonella just waiting to get out and devour both your brain and your bacon, that for the past twenty years or so Remus has been cooking his eggs till there isn’t a trace of runny yolk. Sirius knows this and is always very touched whenever he thinks about it, like now, but he’s never been very good at _telling_ Remus how he feels, so he cooks and butters extra toast for Remus, and as he lays it on the table, he lightly presses the other man‘s hand.

Breakfast is a silent affair for the most part, after all, what is there to talk about? Remus’ time is taken up with Order work, and Sirius is, in his words, nothing but a glorified house-elf. Neither man likes what they are doing, neither wants to talk about it, and as it takes up their entire separate lives, there’s really only the weather left.

Sirius’ mood, lightened by the unhurried, comfortable past half hour, begins to darken again when Remus, compelled by necessity, clears away the dishes to the sink, and puts on his hat and coat. Sirius leans against the bench, watching.

“Don’t go, please.” Sirius pleads quietly as he hands Remus his walking stick, “Not yet. Five more minutes.”

Remus just shakes his head sadly, “You know I can’t.”

“I just...” Sirius trails off, unable to find the right words. But Remus knows - knows what Sirius wants to say, knows that he can’t, knows Sirius himself, and doesn’t mind. He reaches out to his friend, hand grasping Sirius’ shoulder, right up next to his neck, so his thumb can gently brush over Sirius’ scarred cheek. Sirius reaches up and takes the hand, and holds it tightly for a moment, suspended between them. Then Remus breaks away and is gone, leaving for another day of secrets and danger and unspeakable terrors.

Sirius doesn’t watch him leave.


End file.
